Читать книгу Death’s Jest-Book - Reginald Hill - Страница 14

Jesus bloody Christ!’ said Peter Pascoe.

‘Yes, I know it’s that time of year,’ said Ellie Pascoe who was sitting at the other side of the breakfast table looking without enthusiasm at a scatter of envelopes clearly containing Christmas cards. ‘But is it fair to blame a radical Jewish agitator for the way western capitalism has chosen to make a fast buck from his alleged birthday?’

‘The cheeky sod!’ exclaimed Pascoe.

‘Ah, it’s a guessing game,’ said Ellie. ‘OK. It’s from the palace saying the Queen is minded to make you a duchess in the New Year’s Honours list. No? OK, I give up.’

‘It’s from bloody Roote. He’s in Cambridge, for God’s sake!’

‘Bloody Roote? You mean Franny Roote? The student? The short story writer?’

‘No, I mean Roote the ex-con. The psycho criminal.’

‘Oh, that Roote. So what’s he say?’

‘I’m not sure. I think the bastard’s forgiving me.’

‘Well that’s nice,’ yawned Ellie. ‘At least it’s more interesting than these sodding cards. What’s he doing in Cambridge?’

‘He’s at a conference on Romantic Studies in the early nineteenth century,’ said Pascoe, looking at the programme enclosed with the letter.

‘Good for him,’ said Ellie. ‘He must be doing well.’

‘He’s only there because of Sam Johnson,’ said Pascoe dismissively. ‘Here we are. Nine o’clock this morning. Mr Francis Roote MA will read the late Dr Sam Johnson’s paper entitled Looking for the laughs in Death’s Jest-Book. That sounds a bundle of fun. What the hell does it mean?’

‘Death’s Jest-Book? You remember Samuel Lovell Beddoes, whose life Sam was working on when he died? Well, Death’s Jest-Book is this play that Beddoes worked at all his life. I’ve not read it but I gather it’s pretty Gothic. And it’s a revenge tragedy.’

‘Revenge. Aha.’

‘Don’t make connections which aren’t there, Peter. Let’s have a look at the letter.’

‘I’m not finished yet. There’s reams of the bloody thing.’

‘Well, give us the bit you’ve read. And don’t take too long reading the rest. Time and our daughter wait for no man.’

There had been a time when an off-duty Saturday meant a long lie in with the possibility of breakfast or, if he was very lucky, even tastier goodies in bed. But this was before his daughter Rosie had discovered she was musical.

Whether any competent authority was going to confirm this discovery, Pascoe didn’t know. While not having a tin ear, his musical judgment wasn’t sufficiently refined to work out whether the faltering and scrannel notes he could even now hear issuing from her clarinet were much the same as those produced by a pre-pubescent Benny Goodman, or whether this was as good as it got.

But while he was waiting to find out, Rosie had to have lessons from the best available teacher, viz. Ms Alicia Wintershine of the Mid-Yorkshire Sinfonietta, whose excellence was evidenced by the fact that the only session she had available (and that only because another budding virtuosa had discovered ponies) was nine o’clock on Saturday morning.

So goodbye to breakfast in bed, and all that.

But a man is still master in his own head if not his own house, and Pascoe buttered himself another piece of toast and settled down to the rest of Roote’s letter.